The Mole

by Phyllis Beebe

The mole is blind.
Eschewing light,
It lives its life
In darkest night.
Tunneling in endless muck,
Eating root and worm.
Careless he of other's hurt
No love he cares to earn.
Building nothing in his course
Through lawn or meadow land.
Dying lonely, what is worse,
Unmourned by mole or man.